


Yurei

by Phylix



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Ghosts, Graphic Violence, Horror, M/M, No Sex, Supernatural Elements, only violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26723323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phylix/pseuds/Phylix
Summary: Haunted.It started as a spot in the corner of his eye. A dark blotch that lingered at the corner of his vision.  For years, he ignored it, willing it away. Still, Jesse McCree knew it was more. A dark figure that lingered in all the dark corners of his vision. Watching him.Hanzo.He had never even met the man, but that dark, forlorn expression, that unearthly pale skin, all of it etched itself into his mind. Those dark, eyes calling out to Jesse, pleading with him for something...For more than a decade, Shimada Castle has been left to rot, a withering husk of its former glory.  Nothing has been the same since Hanzo Shimada vanished. Fear and corruption festered in those walls, leaving behind nothing but a tomb. Still, the ancient monument called to McCree.  That is why he came.For answers. For the chance to make something right.  Hanzo Shimada is dead. His spirit is trapped between worlds and only McCree knows.  Only McCree can set him free.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40
Collections: Danger & Dread: A McHanzo Horror Collection





	Yurei

Leaves crunched underfoot as Jesse slowly maneuvered his way around the lonely remains of Shimada Castle. Paint peeled like bark off of trees from every structure, revealing the dark green and brown wood beneath while rusty red posts leaned against the edifice with the barest hint that they were still able to support it. The temple now sagged in the middle where the vacant bell once stood while black dirt collected at every crevice. Cracked tiles lay embedded in the soil.

It was as if the earth was slowly swallowing the structure back into her bowels.

For more than a decade, the fortress rotted away with no caretaker to its name. Hanamura developed further into modernity, leaving the land to wither and crumble.

It wasn't surprising. The last Shimada hadn't been seen in as many years. Fear and corruption festered in these walls, and like a sinking ship, the rats all fled. 

The catalyst to it all was Genji's murder. 

Defection and splintering continued to fissure the rest of the family. One by one, the progeny turned against one another, leading to more bloodshed and more anguish. Betrayal, it seemed, didn't stop with a single person rejecting the old life. The second the clan was willing to kill an heir, everyone became a target.

A trickle of bloodletting soon turned into an all-out slaughter until nothing was left but a pile of bodies and a glorious estate with no one left to govern her.

It left a lingering question; where was Hanzo Shimada?

Like lambs to the slaughter, every new oyabun that rose to prominence met with a dark fate, but where was the proper scion? How could it be that a man like Hanzo Shimada, who had trained from birth to rule, could not quell the rising mutiny against him?

What happened to the heir?

Rumors persisted. Some stated that Hanzo defected. He had become a mercenary seeking atonement for his crimes or that he joined an order of monks. 

It was nothing more than street gossip, Jesse knew. No one in their right mind would relinquish a family title and sought redemption in the Shimada clan, not without backlash. Jesse understood first hand how the Shimada clan reacted when faced with a detractor. No matter what happened to Hanzo, it was not going to have a happy end. 

Still, Jesse was sure the heir had been long dead. He knew it, just as he knew the feeling of the rain against his skin. Hanzo Shimada could not survive his family any more than Genji. And the latter was only able to survive because of Blackwatch's intervention.

Hanzo would not have been so lucky.

The day had started with rain, which did nothing but add a layer of mud and dampness. It was already a dreary day filled with unpleasant business. If this had been fiction, the symbolism would have been heavy-handed.

In its prime, this shining, white castle overlooking the peasants below would have been the pride of Hanamura. There was no wonder why the Shimadas had thought of themselves as lords of the land. 

It was a far cry from the plywood that was nailed haphazardly over the door. It seemed the constructors of the barrier had not cared for the longevity of the piece, as nails hung out at jagged angles, barely piercing the wood below. It didn't matter much, as weather and time had bowed the wood out of place, leaving it akimbo against the door frame. 

With ease, Jesse wedged his hands under the space between and pulled it out of joint. The nails gave a low groaning whine as they pulled free, and the noise echoed in the silence of the courtyard. The small hairs stood upright against the back of Jesse's neck and down his shoulders. It was like bone-cold fingers grazed along his naked skin. 

Cautiously, he set the wood aside and leaned it as quietly as possible against the wall--a habit from his Blackwatch days. He still felt the urge to stay as silent as the dead, even if it was foolish. There was no one here, and no one watching him. The silent tomb of Shimada Castle didn't feel empty, though. All around him, he could feel the wandering gaze of something unknown.

Since the moment he stepped foot onto the estate, it was as if eyes had watched him — that creeping curse of ill-will that slithered beside him as a constant companion in his loneliness. 

It loomed like the black spot on his vision, out of focus enough like a black spot, dark and dangling, and just out of perception. Constant. 

But when he turned his head to gaze upon the figure, it was gone — only lingering on the precipice of being known. It was not ready to be known yet, Jesse knew, but since appearing in Hanamura, he could feel the tendrils of shadowy black creep further into his vision, blinding him more.

It had started in the year before he left Blackwatch as a small dot in the corner of his eye that he only perceived in the dark hours of the night. Sometimes, Jesse would find himself lost for hours as he stared into the distance. His vision would go soft, and the world began to blur. 

In those times, the spot grew. It doubled or tripled in size with dark tendrils of black pushing forward, threatening to blanket his vision. Everything would dim to a pinprick of light as his head began to swim. Behind his eyes, his head would throb like a migraine. 

Jesse allowed the black spot to ooze into the battlefield, and suddenly his accuracy increased. It was almost as if some otherworldly force came and slowed the whole world down for him. The colors would fade away until he could only see the enemy in front of him. It left his head throbbing afterward, but he was left alive and revered for his skills. 

And the spot on his vision grew.

Sometimes, when he would blink, the world would right itself again, and the black spot would bleed away into the background once again. But recently, that had not happened. Lately, even without using Deadeye, as he had come to call it, the pox remained. 

Jesse's hand reached up, pressing against his temple as he felt the oncoming throb of pain, even before it happened. He pushed the dread aside and stepped inside.

Jesse wanted to blame Genji for his coming to Hanamura, but that wasn't the truth. His first visit to Japan had been while in Blackwatch, securing information about the Shimada clan from the youngest heir. At first blush, he hadn't thought much about the city afterward. Even when Genji became his partner, he hardly ever felt compelled to speak about the town where Genji once lived. He barely liked thinking of his own hometown.

And yet, Hanamura called to him as a sirens call.

It started with waking night terrors.

Jesse would lay awake in bed, long after the moon had crested the sky, and the sky was the deepest of velvet colors. Sleep, cut from him like a knife, would leave him staring endlessly at the ceiling above. Or at least, that is what should have been there. 

Instead, his eyes would watch the figure that hung above him. Nearly nose-to-nose, those glassy, dark eyes would gaze at him without light behind them. Unblinking, the specter's gaze would travel Jesse's form, his head twitching and creaking as he moved, as if his neck were too stiff to move. Jarring and unnatural, it did not move in the way a living person could. The bone-white robes, and the pale white skin contrasted with the vibrant red gash that tore across his throat, starting just behind his ear to the other side and deep.

The first time the vision appeared to him, it did not hover over him. It lingered quietly in the dark corner of his room with a look of bewilderment and fury in those glassy eyes. Slowly, the specter's mouth opened wide, as if in a silent scream.

Jesse, himself, had wanted to scream; only he found his body paralyzed. His mind remained sharp. His fingers twitched as he looked over to his gun that sat holstered at the headboard; only his fingers refused to obey his command. It was as if his body hadn't registered his wakefulness just yet. 

His stomach churned. He tried to look away.

Dr. O'Deorain called it a night terror. He had waited several weeks before reporting it to her. These dreams, she had said, were like more vivid nightmares that manifested outside of his awareness. To him, he was wide awake and alert, but that was his brain tricking him. He was still asleep. This form of dreams was not unusual for a man in Jesse's line of work. She prescribed for him several sleep aids and said that would be enough.

Only it wasn't. 

The figment still lingered and still watched him with mouth agape and growing bolder every passing night. Sometimes, he would waken to find the creature floating above him, close enough that Jesse could reach out and touch. Sometimes, it merely lingered in the corners of his room watched Jesse as he slept.

Despite every instinct inside himself, the phantom was beautiful. Beyond the unnatural pale skin and bone-white robe, Jesse could see what remained of the man. 

That bloodless skin contrasted with the inky blackness of his glass eyes and dark hair that hung disheveled around his shoulders. Jesse was sure, if he were permitted to move, the soft pale skin would have held no warmth, and be as smooth and rigid as porcelain, but still, he yearned to touch.

Jesse would lay helpless in the dark as he watched the apparition above him twist his head strangely. Those unblinking eyes would study him as if this visitor knew Jesse was no threat. 

It was always the same.

By morning, Jesse was alone.

After the fall of Overwatch, the black stain on his vision worsened. He initially had sought out medical help. Doctors were baffled. A vision test showed that his sight was intact, there was no clear obstruction on his cornea, but still, the blackness persisted. It grew.

The solution was to biopsy his eye by draining the viscous fluids. They wanted to study him like a lab rat. Fear lingered in his mind as the spot planted itself further into his line of sight. He feared soon he would lose his sight entirely, or worse. That what the doctors would find inside his body was worse than a blind spot on his vision. 

He declined. 

What he gained would not be worth even the chance that he would lose his eyes.

Then came the voice. Whispering in Jesse's ear when he sat alone in the desert and the darkness of night dragged on. A soft, quiet voice that breathed against his ear a siren's song, telling him it was time. He needed to come home.

Against his better judgment, he followed.

________

The sound of the damp echoed as it trickled along the exposed walls like musical notes. The rains came in earnest the moment he stepped foot inside the massive structure, making his escape all the more treacherous.

Jesse stood in the shadow of the entryway, his hand nestled against his empty hip, ready for any enemy that dared to crawl out of the dark abyss. The scuttling of rats against the floorboards seemed to be the only other sign of life in this tomb.

The entryway had flooded at some point, leaving the wooden floor warped under his feet, and the furniture slumped against the back wall. A square cupboard sat to his left, filled with shoes propped up side-by-side as if their masters would come back for them at any moment. Nestled on top was a little golden cat, it's paw was raised up and over its head as it smiled menacingly at Jesse. "Forgive me if I keep my boots on," Jesse tipped his hat to the golden calico. 

Nothingness stood to his right. Stairs descended into the dense unknown where the blackness pooled, almost imploring him to dive in and drink the cold void beyond. His gaze lingered, watching the spot as tendrils of black began to form and tunneled his vision. Shapes began to form in the emptiness, swirling and dancing like flickering candles in the gloom. 

He blinked them away. The shapes receded into the shadows where they belonged. 

Jesse turned his gaze away, looking deep into the mausoleum of Shimada Castle.

Jesse stepped across the wooden bridge that divided the great hall from the entry, finding the natural light poured in - as did the elements - from a massive hole in the ceiling. The rain crashed down in waves against the weathered tatami mat. It ran like a river over the floor, only to spill into the walkway below.

Like an ocean, it divided him from the shrine of the Shimada family and the distorted silk dragons that writhed above. Retching, the blue and green dragons sagged heavily, their claws extended out as if to hold on to their position over the family. Their vibrant colors, carefully preserved for a generation, stolen from by the moisture and leaving them dulled to the color of the earth — skeletons of their former glory. 

"Snakes, the whole lot of them," Jesse muttered to himself as he tried to not look at the silk banner that hung below, bearing the Shimada family creed, still stained with dark brown blood. Genji's blood. The altar was the place where Genji's brother raised a sword and struck him down.

Only Genji was not here now. Genji tucked himself away, hidden from the world. He would have protested Jesse's coming. It was better to come, get Hanamura out of his head, and then--

And then what?

Slowly, he closed his eyes, able to see the phantom behind his eyes. The image of the creature was burned onto his retinas, a constant reminder of the ghosts that followed him. Jesse could recall with ease the tattered white robe that hung limp on his body, sleeves dangled, and barely covered the dark red fingertips. He could see the lank, black hair tangle at his shoulders, and the violent red scar along his neck. And how those glassy eyes would stare unmoving at him, almost imploring him, beckoning him to come home to Hanamura.

It was all he saw, bleeding into his waking hours, that constant, dark figure that hovered just beyond his vision, an unknown entity that attached itself to him. He was a ghost that wanted release; only Jesse did not know who he was, or why it chose him.

Early one morning, sitting alone in the husk of a broken-down barn, Jesse McCree waited for the figment to dissolve in the early morning light. The strong jaw and the dark eyes with the thick eyelashes that haunted him came into focus. Slowly, those pieces formed together, and for once, he saw it clearly for who this was.

He was staring into the gaunt face of Hanzo Shimada.

Telling Genji was not an option. Hell, neither was telling anyone else. Being an excommunicated member of Overwatch meant he already had unclean hands. Jesse stood by helplessly as he watched all three of his commanding officers die. Admitting he had seen a ghost without any irony would be the final nail in his sanity's coffin. Mentioning that he saw the spirit of a man unconfirmed to be dead was even worse. 

No, telling people wasn't an option. And now, while he stood in the husk of Shimada Castle, the stillness surrounded him. For the first time in years, the weight of the ghosts lifted from his shoulders.

His head was silent.

________

Night came fast. Jesse had little time to anticipate its arrival. The hours of the day seemed to slip by without his mind knowing, leaving in cold and damp in the darkened space. 

Along the walls, the shadows grew thicker the more the sun sank below the horizon. He had found a room, one he supposed had been the master suite at one point, now it was as empty as the rest of the home. The shoji windows were clawed off their hinges with deep scratches penetrating the thin paper.

Under him, the floor groaned with every trepidatious step, threatening to collapse under his weight. It hadn't, though. With every creaking moan for the house, Jesse felt himself emboldening as he set to work.

Jesse reached back and felt the folded parchment in his back pocket, just to make sure it was still there. It crinkled dryly under his fingers. His mind settled. 

He dropped his bag onto the damp ground, where it squelched in the wet. He gave it very little care as he began to extract his supplies and lay them out neatly in front of him.

First came the tapered candles of various sizes. It had taken Jesse nearly an entire day to find as many as he needed in pure white and virgin. With a quick flick of his lighter, the ends would sizzle and spark as they took the flame for the first time. He let the wax melt before drizzling it onto the wooden floors. Then, he stuck the end into place and held it there for a while until the wax set, and it could stand on its own. 

The nine candles of different shapes sat scattered around the room in a systematic order. Each one placed an equal distance apart until they formed what resembled a circle. 

The sinister shadows that lingered in his eye now clung to the walls. The elongated tendrils stretched towards him while they flickered and danced with the flame. 

Nine, he reasoned, was a good number. Jesse forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Nine was a multiple of three, which his grandmother had always said was the luckiest of numbers. It was a number that represented the trinity and thus meant no evil could befall him. 

It was time he reasoned as he pulled out the tattered yellow parchment from his back pocket. Carefully, he unfurled it and laid the paper out before him. 

Something was haunting about the odor of old books. It was a scent that clung to the nostrils and lingered there for hours after. It smelled of decay and rot, but in the sweetest of fashions. Jesse had found the manuscript while digging through the remains of a burned-out convent. The sisters had long fled the Spanish cloister, leaving everything they possessed behind when the omnics attacked. 

Only, they had never returned.

Jesse had. He snuck in, like a thief in the night, and stole the pages. With one clean scouring of his knife, Jesse ripped them clean away from the book. As he shoved the papers into his bag, Jesse felt the chasm in his heart grow deeper. It was one thing, he reasoned, to steal from the wealthy elite. It was another thing entirely to disrespect a religious text.

He needed it, though.

The sweet rot of paper festered. 

Jesse carefully smoothed the paper out, promising the universe he would return them after he finished his deed. The dark red ink had started to run as if the tear had physically harmed the pages and made the page bleed. 

Still, the tight script was legible, if unreadable. Latin was a language that only existed in his catholic adolescence, and now, it stared up the page at him, mocking him. It did not matter that this was the hundredth time he had seen it.

Jesse squinted his eyes in the dim light as he read the thin, red lines. The cursive was tight, making the letters blend into one another. He struggled to make out the words. Like everything else that surrounded him, it was a relic from another time and place.

The instructions, at least the parts of them he could make out, were vague. Then again, this was a ritual not meant for his eyes. His focus remained on the most legible part of the whole script, the large diagram in the center. Blue flamed candles surrounded a doubled white circle. Between each candle was an elaborate rune. Nine candles. Nine runes. One circle.

Carefully, he extracted the chalk from his bag, hoping that the spirit world cared not for the playground toys and mismatched candles. Jesse set them against the ground reverently, before sitting back on his haunches and looking out over the empty room. He could feel the cold tendrils of the wind against the nape of his neck.

The chalk felt heavy in his hand as he pressed the tip against the worn tatami mat, almost as if there were a second hand on top of his, guiding it along the floor as he traced out the circular shape. 

Drawn next were the runes. They amounted to nothing but meaningless symbols, but Jesse reckoned that the spirit world did not care if Jesse understood everything. It was the ritual that held power, not his beliefs. With careful precision, the chalk scratched against the mat like nails on a board, screaming and crying out as shaking hands etched them into the floor. 

Heart hammering in his chest, Jesse stood back and looked upon his work and felt the despair deepen within him. The paper crumpled in his hand, as he felt his throat clenched tightly, preventing him from speaking. It was as if cold hands tightened against his throat and squeezed. 

Tears pricked behind his eyes. The room felt colder now. It was as if the spirits that had haunted him for all these years were suddenly departing. Like they were afraid of him. 

Jesse blinked them away.

This ritual was necessary, he reasoned. It was going to free them both. He was here for Hanzo and his freedom. Nothing more.

He began to read the invocation.

At first, Jesse's voice shook. A sharp quiver interrupted the tempo of his words as his hands struggled to keep the prayer stable in his hands. The Latin came to him with ease. Long forgotten memories of grueling through Catholic school came back to him. The syntax and rhythm. The musicality of the words. The strict rigor of learning the benediction and the prayer to the apostles and saints gave him an advantage. 

He invoked a god he barely believed in anymore. He invoked the Holy Mother, even while his flesh-and-blood mother lay in the cold ground a thousand miles away. Bitterly, he felt himself invoking every Catholic saint and person in all of history before commanding the spirit to present himself. 

He called upon a cruel god to come and relieve him of this spirit and this pain.

The wind howled outside. It raked its terrible claws against the windows, threatening to break them in. It screamed with a frenzied rage as it beat itself against the walls, thumping loudly with every word spoken.

Jesse was screaming. He had not realized it until the serape wrapped tightly around him was snatched away from his body. The wind outside was now around him, swirling and screaming in his ears and biting at his skin, trying to tear his flesh away.

Still, he persisted. His voice was raw as he continued to invoke the spirit to come forth and show itself. The wind snarled and roared around him, swirling around his body and trying to pull the tattered parchment from his fingers, almost as if the palace itself did not want to lose its secrets. Words that had no meaning to him spilled fluidly from his mouth. 

The golden lights from the candles flickered like trick birthday candles. Jesse watched as their flames choked out , only to flare back, fatter and fuller than ever, like they were absorbing the power of the wind. Like they amplified Jesse's power.

Spots of light danced in front of his eyes as the room began to sway. Underfoot, the wooden floorboards creaked loudly as they were jostled from where they had been laid to rest a hundred years before. From below, the wind knocked angrily against the ceiling, jostling Jesse.

He dropped to his hands and knees, scraping away the skin on his palms and left a bloody streak against the yellowed parchment. His blood mixed with the ink, obscuring the words funder. Still, Jesse read on.

The dark spots squirmed against the walls, reaching out to him like the tendrils of a jellyfish and covering every surface. It devoured the light like a black hole while the wind stole his breath. Soon, there was nothing left but himself, the candles, and the white chalk circle. It sat before him, floating in the void. 

With a bellowing cry, the wind tore through the room and snatched the breath out of Jesse's lungs. The flames extinguished. The room stilled.

Jesse sat in the dark silence for a heartbeat. His breath echoed off the chamber, and his lungs burned with the sudden icy chill that permeated the room. Quietly, he splayed his fingers against the tatami mat and inched them forward, moving only millimeters at a time. He was afraid. Afraid of what he would find when he reached forward.

He drew in another breath, as something else breathed out. A low, rasping sound, as if the air was squeezed through a rubber hose with a kink in it. It was a guttural noise that drew breath from the deepest part of the lungs, desperately trying to refill themselves with air, only...

The candles burst. Blue flames belched upwards in a mushroomed arch and licked hungrily at the wooden planks above in a quick light, bright enough to burn him, if only they weren’t as cold as ice.

The uncanny light bathed the world surrounding him as the candles settled again. Jesse’s eyes were transfixed on the form before him. The tattered and unkempt shape from his waking nightmares stared back.

“Hanzo,” He mouthed the name, unable to get the word out above the barest hush. 

The figure snarled and reached forward, his bloody fingers reaching the edge of the circle before reeling back, clutching the limb close to his body as if the icy fire burned him.

Jesse sat still, unable to move--unable to react, drinking in the form of the young scion.

He had seen pictures of Hanzo Shimada before. Genji had smuggled a few photos of them both standing together. That thick jawline and deep scowl could only be from Hanzo Shimada. But that was years before. This figment of Hanzo had grown. Deep-set eyes and a well-groomed beard that complimented those robust features better than the babyfaced adolescent he was accustomed to. 

Long hair, chopped at odd angles, hung limply against Hanzo’s hunched shoulders as Hanzo’s shoulders heaved and convulsed. A hand clawed angrily at his throat as if a cord was wound tightly around his neck. It strangled the air out of his body. Except, there was nothing there except the deep laceration, like a steak deeply severed. Jesse could see the white fragment of bone below.

There was no blood, which haunted him the most. He expected gallons of it to spill out of that deep wound, and blanket Hanzo’s bare chest in deep, violent red. But there was no blood, only the heaving shoulders and dark, raspy break of air that sucked in through his mouth and never reached his empty lungs.

A wound like that would have bled him dry in a matter of minutes. It wouldn’t have been sufficient time to suffocate. He would have probably only been conscious for a few moments before-

“What in God’s name did they do to you,” Jesse whispered into the darkness, sure that the silence swallowed his words.

Hanzo’s fist clenched at the floor as fury sounded in those dark eyes. His lips quivered as they moved, speaking without sound. Without breath.

The hand at Hanzo’s throat tightened, the white knuckles of his hand straining as he pulled in a guttural, rasping breath. His chest expanded, and a voice emerged, hoarse and soft. “What...did you...do?” 

A shiver rolled through Jesse as that voice, crisp and raw, washed over him. He felt the bile rise in the back of his throat. What did he do? What did this ghost before him know? Was he even aware he was dead?

Jesse swallowed, his lips numb as he tried to formulate words. “You are dead,” He managed. “You died a long time ago, and I-I came to help.”

Hanzo’s hand fell away from the cut along his throat as Jesse spoke, confusion and anger twisting in his eyes as he looked down at his pale hands in the blue light. “I-” The words came out easier now as if Hanzo realized that breath was no longer needed to speak. He had no lungs anymore that needed the air. “Was lost. For so long, it felt like I was tumbling out of bed. It was like I was dreaming, and everything would have been better if I just woke up.”

Those dark eyes softened as he looked at Jesse. “I couldn’t wake up.” Sadness dwelt in those sad, dark eyes.

Jesse’s hand twitched. Desperately, he wished to reach across the barrier of the circle and take Hanzo's hand in his. He needed to feel that smooth skin under his fingers and trace the scales of that blue dragon against his arm. He needed to feel Hanzo there, that he was a real thing. A physical something that he could embrace and hold and-

A breath hitched in Hanzo’s throat as Jesse’s hands drew closer to the ring of the circle, his fingertips nearly touching the white chalk line. The craving in his eyes grew. 

Jesse twitched, pulling his hand away. “I came here to help.”

“It’s...cold,” Hanzo stated, slowly his gaze came back up and fixed on Jesse’s. “My arms and legs are cold and stiff. It hurts so much. And I’ve been…” His words drifted away as the light that was just dawning in his eyes drifted away into that blank space.

“Hanzo,” Jesse called out his name. “Hanzo, listen to me. You came to me, do you remember that? You came to me in the middle of the night. You came and came and came. You brought me here.”

“I brought,” Hanzo’s lips mouthed the words, but no sound came out. He seemed so small, seated before Jesse with his tattered, dirty clothes. He looked so lost. 

“What happened to you?” Jesse whispered. “Please, what...I want to know. I want to understand.”

Hanzo looked down at his hands, at the dark nails, caked with dried blood and dirt. Slowly, he flexed his fingers, as if the simple motion brought agony into his body. He slowly turned to Jesse and held his hand out with his palm raised. He held it out in front of him, as an invitation. “Sleeping,” Hanzo said. “I want to wake up.” 

Jesse hesitated for only a moment, before reaching through the barrier. Fingertips brushed against the ice-cold skin. A rush of memories that did not belong to him invaded his mind. They crashed into him, all at once, like a song playing over itself. All of them happening at the same time, one on top of the other. It was as if time and memory and space had no meaning. 

A blade raised up in the night, caught the moonlight and shimmered like water. It looked so beautiful, bathed in silver. Then darkness. Cold and wet emptiness that stretched around him like a vacuum. It was an empty void, filled with nothing, that cascaded over him. He tried to suck in air, finding the task impossible. Inky blackness filled his lungs and suffocated him.

The blade looked so beautiful in the moonlight. The way the silver shimmered in the night sky, framed by the extravagant moon and the velvet navy sky.

The blade was even more beautiful as it was raised up a second time, bathed in dripping rubies. It was the same red from all those years ago, while he stood in the halls of the enclave, surrounded by silent witnesses. It was the same blood that baptized the hungry blade.

The memories spiraled as an endless loop in Jesse’s mind, consuming him as he clung tightly to the cold hand stretched out in front of him.

With a gasp, Jesse pulled away, as if the cold touch now burned him. He looked into the vacant face before him. Everything felt numb as if Jesse had stared into the endless nothing that awaited him on the other side, where he relived the last, haunting memories of his life.

No, not his life. Hanzo’s life. Hanzo’s endless nightmare of an existence where everything traveled in a spiraling loop that had no escape. Eternity was a black void with no balm for the ache.

God, is that what awaited him as well?

“I won’t leave you trapped like this,” Jesse promised. His hands shook as he laid out the paper before him, the Latin words blurring as his eyes welled with unshed tears. “I won’t leave you trapped here!”

The cold hand of Hanzo reached out, so close to the circle that bound him to this location. Hanzo didn’t belong here. No one deserved to be trapped, ricocheting from one memory to another in an endless cycle. No one deserved to scream silently while strangers watched on in terror, not understanding what had happened to them or why. 

With greater force, Jesse continued to speak the phrases etched into his memory. Utterances which called to cleanse the spirit and sever the tie that bound him to this mortal coil. 

The wind picked up around him again, as if the house itself began to wail in agony as Jesse’s words hacked through whatever spell left Hanzo’s spirit here. His hair tangled in front of his eyes as he screamed, feeling his voice tear and crack as he called forth all the angels and saints in heaven to deliver this man, this spirit into the next world.

Through it all, Hanzo sat still and motionless, the wind not touching a lank hair on his head. He watched Jesse, fingernails clawing absently against the wood as his body twitched.

A crack like thunder rolled through the structure, and Jesse jolted forward as the floor beneath him shifted. 

“Don’t break apart,” Jesse whispered to himself. “I didn’t come this far to fail! I won’t let you go!” He shouted.

Instantly, the world settled itself. The floor stopped quivering and shaking as the wind died away. The candles’ cool blue light dimmed back to the soft orange glow.

Jesse’s whole body trembled, his hands clung to the tattered remains of the exorcism in his hand as he looked forward to the pale and unmoving form of Hanzo.

“H-Hanzo?” Jesse said, his voice soft and raw. 

Hanzo’s gaze turned to his hands, slowly flexing his fingers. “I saw you,” The ghost spoke softly now, the harsh rasping of his voice gone. “You were right there but just out of reach.”

Jesse nodded, crawling forward, his knees rubbing away the white chalk outline of the circle. “You came to me. I don’t know why, but you came to me.”

“I was searching,” Hanzo’s voice was waif-like as if he were coming out of a long nightmare. “I couldn’t find him.” His fingers flexed again as Hanzo turned his hands over, looking at his blackened fingernails. 

“But you found me instead,” Jesse smiled, nodding along with manic energy. He could feel the exhaustion creeping against his back like cold fingers. He couldn’t leave yet, not like this.

“I found you instead,” Hanzo echoed. 

“I came to set you free, so you wouldn’t be trapped anymore.”

A soft smile passed over Hanzo’s lips, slowly, Jesse could see a spark light up behind those dull eyes. “I am free.”

With those words, Jesse felt an ache deep inside his chest. Tears stung at the back of his eyes as he nodded again, finding that words were failing him.

Hanzo closed his eyes and let out a long, low sigh. He turned his face upwards, towards the sky as his form slowly became translucent. 

“Thank you.”Hanzo’s final words whispered in the wind as the candles dimmed more. 

Jesse sat alone in the darkness, looking to the spot where Hanzo once occupied for a while. His body and mind ached, but it was nothing compared to the hole inside his heart. After this was done, Jesse thought he would feel relieved. He believed that the hole inside him that haunted him every night awaiting Hanzo would fill once he accomplished his deed. Instead, he felt more hollow and empty than ever.

There was nothing left for him here. 

There was nothing left for him anywhere.

Slowly, Jesse rose to his feet, pushing away the fatigue for now. He needed to get out of here and to a hotel somewhere. He needed a good meal, and a thorough wash before collapsing into a soft bed. 

After a good sleep, everything would be clear.

He gave one final look at the smudged and lonely circle before turning away.

________

The waves crashed against the moonlight shore with a soft roar while high above him, an indescribable belt of twinkling stars arched overhead. It was only in his dreams when Jesse saw such wondrous sights.

The soft sand molded under his feet as he trekked along the shoreline, letting the water crest up and over his bare skin, warm and inviting. He had been here before, but never in person. It was a lovely image he had seen in a magazine as a child. Instead, this place became the safe haven of his dreams, the place he would go to when he wanted to feel warm and safe.

Without needing to look, Jesse knew what awaited him down the shoreline. Often, he would invite memories of people to this location, dreaming about what could have been or would have been, if things ever went in his favor.

And there, settled just at the line of where the tide crested in and out, he could see the lonely figure, bare feet planted in the sand, and wistfully watching the silvery moonbeams against the water.

Jesse settled himself at the figure’s side. Time seemed to slow, one second melting into the next as he looked over to the familiar figure, now whole. Gone was the gauntness of his cheeks and that pained, blank expression in his eyes. He was warm and soft and alive. His hand extended out, palm up, and Jesse did not hesitate to thread his fingers through. He could feel that soft, rhythmic pulse of blood under his fingers.

“Is this how you picture me?” Hanzo asked. He licked his lips and swallowed. Jesse watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, whole and perfect, and begging for Jesse’s lips to descend onto his skin.

Hanzo sat, clothed in white silk robes with red maple leaves, descending down the sides and masking where the red blood had been as soft, black hair cascaded down his strong shoulders, loose and free. He was a fantasy.

Jesse squeezed his hand in answer, looking out to the waves. “Yeah,” Honesty poured from his lips freely and without shame. “Genji showed me a picture of you two once, I thought you were the prettiest thing I ever saw.”

Hanzo’s hand twitched, squeezing slightly harder at the sound of his brother’s name. “Is that so?” He said.

Jesse’s smile widened. “Genji spoke of you lots, about what happened between your family, all the mistakes along the way. He always wanted you to know he forgave you.”

“Forgave me?” There was a tightness to Hanzo’s voice, one Jesse imagined would have been present if this was not a dream, and the real Hanzo was hearing it and not this figment. 

“You didn’t get a fair chance in life,” Jesse sighed, burying his feet into the warm sand. “You got nothing but pain and suffering. And they tore you and your brother apart. They made you do what you did to him. But, Genji is better now. He is strong and smart. He only regrets that he didn’t get to save you as well.”

Something sparked in Hanzo, a fire that Jesse had never seen before. Dark eyes, ablaze and alive, tore away from the waters and to Jesse. In an instant, those warm hands were cupped against his cheeks and pulled him in.

Soft lips met his. Jesse melted.

This was only a dream, said the voice of reason inside his mind as Jesse tilted his head, deepening the kiss, pulling Hanzo into his lap. Arms wrapped around his lean hips, pulling him closer, wanting to melt their bodies together here in the sand, under the moonlight.

This was only a dream. This was not Hanzo, Jesse reminded himself as hands carded up his neck, into the back of his hair, tugging lightly and pulling a fevered moan from Jesse’s lips. 

He had sent Hanzo’s spirit onto the next world, whatever that was. Jesse’s hands bunched in the silks of Hanzo’s robes, pulling the body closer, feeling hot breath against his skin, and the pounding of a heart against his own chest.

This felt so right, Jesse moaned, realizing that he was in love with a dead man. Fevered hands moved down, across Jesse’s broad shoulders and down his back, nails biting into his skin and scratching in such a lovely way, drawing a loud hiss from Jesse, as he asked for more.

This had to be real. The weight of Hanzo against his body, and the steady way Hanzo breathed against his heated flesh.

“This isn’t real,” Jesse gasped as teeth scraped against his earlobe. A warm tongue traced the outer shell of his ear.

“Who's to say this isn’t real?” Hanzo chuckled, his voice as rough and husky as Jesse’s own. Shocks of electricity filled Jesse’s veins as he pulled the other man closer. “Tell me that I don’t feel real.”

Jesse panted, “You feel real.” 

“Tell me you do not want me,” Hanzo’s lips moved down, across the bottom of Jesse’s jaw. 

“I want you,” Jesse’s voice was a whine as he tipped his head back, exposing more of his neck for the other man. “I found you. You came to me night after night. I came here, and I found you and--” His voice choked in his throat.

“And?” Hanzo implored, his fingers danced along the ridges of Jesse’s spine.

“I don’t want to let you go.” The ache bloomed inside Jesse’s chest as the words came forth, filled with despair. His fingers twisted in Hanzo’s clothes, pulling him in closer. “I came here to set you free, and now that you are gone...what do I do?” He implored.

“Stay with me,” Soft lips ghosted over Jesse’s own as the words were whispered. “Say you will be mine. Forever.”

“Forever,” Jesse echoed. The word barely left his lips before something sharp and cold pierced through his back. It tore deep into his skin and stole the breath from his lungs like tiny knives. Jesse felt them twist under his skin, diving deeper into the muscle and sinew, pulling it away from his bone. 

Jesse retched, arching his back forward as Hanzo continued to leave breathless kisses along his jaw. He could taste the coppery metallic blood against the back of his teeth as he tried to cry out, only managing a short, whimpering whine.

“Shh,” Hanzo held firm, his fingers twisting against Jesse’s back, feeling the strain of muscles and the warmth of blood against his fingers, making his whole back slick. His lips continued to dance along Jesse’s, peppering his skin with tender kisses as his fingers punctured his lungs. “It won’t hurt for long.”

“I-” Jesse gasped for breath. “No, I sent you on. I freed you.” He writhed, trying to pull himself away.

“Is that what your silly ritual was trying to do?” Hanzo chuckled again, his nose nuzzling against the crook of Jesse’s shoulder and neck. “I figured as much.”

Jesse’s eyes blurred as the sea and sand melted away with the warmth from his body and left only the cold, dirty remains of Shimada castle, and the cold, hard body planted in his lap. The smell of rot replaced the salty air as something dry and cracked lapped tenderly against his skin.

Jesse sat in the center of a chalk circle, the runes around it smeared and broken. The wicks of the candles burned down so low, they put themselves out. From the window, the pale moonlight streamed into the empty room as the creature in his lap twisted its fingers deeper into his body, wrapping around his spine. 

Strength left his body, and Jesse fell back. Blood seeped through his clothes, draining away from his body. It soaked into the rotted floors, feeding the house with his life. The world began to tilt and spin, as it all went gray around the edges. Still, Hanzo held onto him, whispering sweet, raspy nothings into his ear.

Words failed him. Jesse stared blankly up to the wooden beams above, focusing on them as thoughts became scattered. Numb and cold, his fingers tingled. Already, it had stopped hurting. His mind slowed as sleep pulled at the edges of his brain with a force more potent than he had known before, beckoning him into the warm embrace of the dark.

“It won’t be long,” Hanzo whispered against his neck. “I will have you when you wake up.”

A soft smile crossed Jesse’s face. “Forever.”

________

It was a curiosity, watching the crane roll through the once pristine gardens of Shimada castle, digging up the earth and worn paths of the Shimada ancestors. It had fallen into disrepair in the years since Genji left, and became a place for drug addicts to congregate. The city decided the palace was long overdue to be flattened into rubble. The land was sold off to some real estate developer and was to be made into a modern high-rise luxury apartments. 

That was until the Historical Society of Japan came along. The tireless work they put in, made Shimada Castle into a heritage site. Funds were found to restore the palace to its once former glory. Even now, months before it was slated to open, Hanamura saw a spike in tourism. The famous Dragon Palace, where it is said that magic and ghosts reside, would become another destination. 

Genji watched with fascination from Rikimaru, hoping the large machinery would swing wide and crash into the ancient structure and cause the whole damn thing to collapse. 

If Genji had it his way, the land would have been salted, burned, and left to rot. Of course, for Genji to have it his way, he would have to admit that the younger Shimada heir was not dead. He did not want that responsibility. He was nothing more than a humble Shambali monk, and he rather enjoyed his life. 

“I can’t wait to go inside,” A young girl to his left whispered excitedly to her companion. “Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to see inside that big castle, and now they promise to give tours!”

The other girl, who looked more practical and composed, shrugged. “You couldn’t pay me enough to go into that place, especially after that death.”

Genji hummed in agreement, even though he was not a part of their conversation and settled back. They could not pay him to enter that castle, not ever again. Even from here, he could feel the cold eyes of his ancestors on him, as if they knew he was a Shimada. As if he belonged inside those walls as well, never to leave. The dragon that lived under his skin twisted tighter around him.

Jesse had not been heard from in weeks. Genji had used some shared contacts and found that his former partner had made his way to Japan under old Blackwatch credentials, leading Genji back here to Hanamura, before every lead went cold. 

It took minimal investigation skills for Genji to find the story in the newspapers. It was nothing more than a blurb about the growing homelessness problem in Hanamura.

The body of an unidentified male had been found inside the walls of Shimada castle. He had been laid out neatly with hands carefully folded over his chest. It seemed that someone cared a great deal about the man. All the blood had been drained from him, without a spot of it found in any of the rooms. 

The police had been baffled. The man was obviously a foreign tourist, but he carried no paperwork on his person, and none of the local hotels or inns had recognized his face. With no one to claim him, the man had been given a quiet funeral. 

The only thing the police could agree on was that the whole affair was odd.

Life went on.

Except, it didn't go on. Not for Jesse McCree, who had vanished from the world as effectively as his brother had.

“Sparrow?” The soft hand of Zenyatta pressed against Genji’s shoulder, warm and genuine. It pulled Genji away from his thoughts and the ghosts that plagued him. “You have come this far, is there anything more you wish to see? To do?”

Zenyatta’s voice was always so even and calm, but Genji could hear the want. They had come here for answers. They had come to find closure. Hanzo, wherever he was, was no longer here in Hanamura. Neither was Jesse. Genji had an inkling they were both in the same place now, even though the thought pained him. 

Genji's hand wrapped around the warmth of the other monk, holding him firmly as he took one final look up at his childhood home. At the walkways, where he and Hanzo chased each other when they were little boys. He saw the red temple, where he found Hanzo exhausted from praying for their mother, then their father when each of them had fallen ill. He saw the courtyard where they trained their bodies to be weapons for the family.

Lastly, his eye fell on the upper window, open to the world. He swore, if he squinted just right, just beyond the darkness, he could see two figures inside. Their arms wrapped around each other as they flickered and danced in the shade of Shimada castle.

Good, He thought. Let this be home to all that haunted him. Let the spirits dance and love and be happy in this place that only reminded him of sadness and death. 

He had enough of ghosts.

“I am done here.” Genji’s fingers entwined with the Omnic’s as he rose, a smile on his scarred face. “Take me back to the land of the living.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to the wonderful Jazzi, who made artwork for this dumb fic. I will link it here, as well as their information once I see it posted. Thank you so much for reading. I rated it E because of the violence. It is pretty graphic there, and while I could have written some ghost sex, this felt much more authentic.


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